


When It Rains, It Pours

by parchment



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BBC Sherlock AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2014-07-12
Packaged: 2018-02-08 11:44:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1939791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parchment/pseuds/parchment
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yes, that was a umbrella joke. This is my very first fic, and only partially beta'd. Any mistakes are my fault. Forgive me. Any comments are welcome, any praise, adored. For the lovely tumblr user, etvlamaculotte, who was so kind when I had an existential crisis over the due date of this work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Act I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [musamihi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/musamihi/gifts).



Sherlock was missing again.

Usual.

Sherlock hadn't contacted John.

Unusual.

Someone had contacted John with information on Sherlock that no one, save Mycroft himself, was privy.

Highly improbable.

Sherlock appeared to be kidnapped.

Almost impossible.

However, Mycroft Holmes was a very reasonable man, so he weighed each possibility carefully, gathering evidence, deducing. Too much legwork in his opinion; nevertheless, Sherlock was a special case. Sentiment, he lamented, was _such_ a disadvantage. But one cannot argue with dopamine. He sighed, and reviewed the facts once more.

Sherlock had disappeared four, almost five, days previously. Precisely twenty-four hours later, John received the first of what would be several messages, little notes that quickly escalated to threats. The primary one had been stuck under John's breakfast plate, and simply read _'Missing something?'_ John, while unnerved, thought little of it, as Sherlock was prone to getting mysterious, often harmless messages from fanatical people obsessed with him.

 _Much thanks to Doctor Watson's published books,_ Mycroft's subconscious whispered helpfully. 

He stifled the anger at his brother's companion's apparent need for fame or fortune or whatever it was that drove him to write their stories for the public and decided instead to look at the other messages yet again. Just in case. Each of them were delivered at perfect twenty-four hour intervals, each written on thick, ordinary parchment, each scribbled in dark red ink. Looks like blood, his mind whispered again, and he, like every time before, resolutely ignored it, preferring to instead reread the words, to find something more. 

The second lay next to the quickly melting candle, and he wondered idly if it would catch fire. This piece of parchment had been in the doctor's jacket pocket and held the words _'Don't worry. He's in good hands. Speaking of, his fingers are missing something. You wouldn't mind that I borrowed his violin, would you?'_ As surely as the note was from the same person, the violin had mysteriously disappeared, much like its owner. This first act of actual crime had led John to talk to the police, specifically the detective inspector Sherlock was so fond of. _Lestrade,_ Mycroft remembered. The police, of course, did shoddy work, but given Sherlock's esteemed opinion of the DI, Mycroft was led to believe it wasn't due to lack of determination or effort. 

It had been the third that finally prompted John to contact Mycroft, something he should have, in Mycroft's opinion, done long before. It had materialised on the side of Saint Bartholomew's Hospital, a place Sherlock used to frequent, and bore the simple message of _'I O U'_ painted on three windows, respectively. John had been there looking for Sherlock, in fact, and it seemed that Sherlock either refused or couldn't be found. Had the situation been aimed toward anyone else, Mycroft would have assumed the former, but the doctor's unique relationship with Sherlock bore the grim foundation that supported the latter. Mycroft remembered the last time he'd tried to warn Sherlock off of this detective business, in that very building. He hadn't been able to bring himself to return to it, instead sending a professional to take a grainy picture of the dirtied glass. _It's 1871, for God's sake,_ Mycroft thought irritably, _and there's still photography as bad as this?_ He should get someone on that. Richard Maddox looked promising.

The fourth was the worst so far, and as they seemed to be escalating, this was bad. _'A bit not good,'_ Sherlock's voice echoed in his skull, mocking him. The phrase he’d used to help Sherlock take note of social lapses. He had always been better than Sherlock at deduction, and therefore not so focussed on it, having time to master people, as well, but it had been years since a true challenge had arisen. If Mycroft were being honest with himself, he was a bit out of practise. Because of this easily avoidable fact, Sherlock was still not back at 221B bothering Matron Hudson and ignoring his ‘overbearing, insufferable’ brother. Mycroft chest ached, and he reminded himself to lie off of the red meat and grease. That must be why it's been hurting recently. The fourth, he reminded himself harshly, rushing back to the present, shaking his head slightly. Other than that he allowed himself no further movement. Control was paramount. The last message delivered had been under John's pillow that morning, attached to a cheap ginger wig, a wig that was supposed to be worn around one's face. _'He cried for him last night,'_ was all that had been written. John, confused, sent it straight to Mycroft. It took less than two seconds for all the blood in Mycroft's face to drain.

_Redbeard._

And that had settled it.

Sherlock Holmes had been kidnapped, presumably by a completely sadistic psychopath, in an undisclosed location, and had been alone with said psychopath for over one hundred hours.

Drastic times called for drastic measures, Mycroft thought grimly, and finally resigned himself to his fate. He motioned for his assistant to bring the carriage around, and slowly rose from his chair, suddenly aware of how chilled he'd become. He shivered involuntarily, but quickly forced his muscles to clench into immobility. Control. He stood stock still for a long while, until his assistant came back, notifying him that the carriage had arrived.

"Where to, sire?" she asked, breaking the strict silence Mycroft had imposed.

He sighed.

“Scotland Yard."


	2. Act II

On the way to Scotland Yard, Mycroft allowed himself an unusual luxury: time to think. The little notes left were pristine. Carefully thought out, then. But they had an inexplicable cheeky note to them, suggesting either familiarity or a complete psychopath. Given his brother’s associates, Mycroft allowed the possibility of both. Sherlock had an abundance of enemies, but only a handful that could pull something as effective as this off. Of course, that, compounded with Mycroft’s and even John’s enemies who could hurt them through Sherlock, and all the handfuls added up to one large list of bad, bad people. Even with all of these people, Mycroft, with the help of his efficient if taciturn assistant, narrowed the list to a total of three people. Three extremely unreachable people who had excellent resources. One name stood out in particular, but he quickly brushed the thought away. He was in America, last he’d heard. Something about racial boundaries, social movement, a need for firearms, and that heinous group called the ‘KKK.’ The man was out of the question.

Throughout the ride, Mycroft’s assistant had remained silent, and he sent a little prayer of thanks to whatever deity was in charge of men with large headaches. He’d never had a risk pay off more than when he hired a woman. This quiet, unassuming lady, trained in three different martial art forms, was smarter than any man he’d ever met and more functional, too. Social boundaries be damned, if this was how ignoring them paid off.

As the carriage slowed to a jerky stop, Mycroft came back to himself slowly. He had been plucking a strand of thread coming from his shirt. Hand-made, with horsehair used as thread, cotton hand-picked. He’d gotten it, in fact, in a storage house when apprehending one of the men on his suspect list. The man in America, actually. He’d been leaving when the owner came up and handed it to him wordlessly. He’d taken it, out of social consciousness more than anything else, and had yet a cause to wear such a plain thing until today. Common people demanded common clothing. It only required a single light undershirt, and, in truth, he was feeling exposed. Mycroft pushed the memories from the forefront of his mind, and steeled himself for the inevitable bore of other people. He, as much as he was loath to admit, was extremely clever, and people often proved boring and insignificant to him, as much as he wished it otherwise.

It could be lonely, running the British Government.

He turned to his assistant, Anthea, again, in her twenty-six day name rotation, and murmured an order to go on with the carriage, back to the ever-present work. No need for extreme appearances. Most people preferred it if you seemed to be on their level.

Mycroft slid out off his seat into the rain-washed cobblestone street, yanking his overcoat when it stuck in the doorframe. Yes, he really should lay off the heavier foods, as Sherlock was always saying. But thinking about Sherlock again, his chest began to ache, so he quickly focussed on the matter at hand.

He walked toward the courtyard, leaning slightly on his ever-present umbrella, the closest thing to a safety blanket he’d ever own. Sherlock had alwa- No. Now was not the time. He looked around, taking in information subtly along the way. The smell of rain and grass, the stone walls in need of maintenance, and the sound of-

Scotland Yard’s finest. The best and brightest the United Kingdom had to offer; the highly esteemed officers, who were currently employed in a vigorous game of football.

Astounding.

Mycroft took a deep breath, summoned all of his self-control, and strolled casually toward the officers. He stood to the side, and cleared his throat politely.

Nothing.

He rapped his umbrella on the ground surreptitiously. One, two, three.

Nothing.

“Excuse me,” he began, only to be cut off by shouts of dismay, as a man named Anderson apparently cheated or something of the like, and there was a minor scuffle.

There was no time for this.

“I am looking for Gregory Lestrade!” Mycroft shouted, letting his control slip, just enough to make it known that he was not in the mood for whatever the _hell_ this was.

Silence.

“Er, excuse me, sire, that’d be me,” a silver-haired man came forward, hanging his head at an appropriate angle, just enough for respect and apologies, but not one degree more. “What may I help you with?”

“It seems to me, Detective Inspector, that _you_ could use _my_ help here. I see your investigation is going at a perfectly respectable rate. Admirable, even,” Mycroft was all but spitting, his control slipping a little more with each word, each flash of Sherlock’s face, in all the variety of scenarios he’d seen him caused pain. He had said the last time would be the last, and with his 7% solution addiction out of the way, he’d been confident he was right, and now? Now he was a liar, a letdown, and above all a helpless piece of miserable shite. This would not do.

Mycroft was much too preoccupied with his inner battle for control to notice the slight tick in the DI’s jaw. The breath coming slightly faster from his scruff-surrounded mouth. The immediate furrow of his brow.

“I have no idea who in the bloody hell you think you are,” Lestrade growled, his voice dipping even deeper than before, gravelly and rough. “And I don’t know where you _think_ you could possibly get off insulting not only myself but my entire _team_. And I don’t particularly _care_ ,” he anticipatorily cut off Mycroft’s open mouth, “because you could be the _bloody QUEEN_ , and I would still kick your arse out of here. Now, sire. If you would please.” Lestrade gestured violently towards the doorway out of the courtyard.

Mycroft froze. Anger surged through him, and he could feel his ordinary façade shatter. His blood iced over, and he felt the kind of calm wash over him that was anything but. He walked forward, invading the officer’s space _just_ enough to be too close. Then, Mycroft smiled. He let it reach his eyes, in such a way that frightened half of Parliament into doing his will.

But there was no change in the man’s face at all. If anything, he looked even firmer, more resolute.

No matter.

Mycroft leaned forward, pushing all the social propriety that’d been self-ingrained since the age of three, and spoke softly to the detective, “I guarantee you, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, that you most certainly do _not_ know who I am, because if you did, you’d mind your manners a bit more. One whispered word from me, and your career is over, one letter, your family disappears, one meeting, and you never existed. Do not test me, Lestrade, because I assure you I will win whatever battle you intend on pursuing. Watch. Your. Tongue.”

Lestrade lent back, a mirror image of Mycroft, and looked over him searchingly. Mycroft allowed him to take in his extremely expensive attire, posh stature and speech, intelligent air. Let him think what he may, as long as he would eventually give in, and aid in finding his bloody brother.

Then, Lestrade did something no one, not even Sherlock had done when threatened by Mycroft.

He laughed.

“Oh, you _must_ be Mycroft,” he chuckled, his voice barely a gasp through his laughter. “Sherlock said you could be a bit of a pompous arsehole if you’d half a mind for it, in not so many words, mind.” Lestrade eventually subsided, and he wiped some tears from his eyes. “’m sorry, mate, it’s just that you really had me going. _‘Watch your tongue.’_ and all that. God. I couldn’t believe it wasn’t a script for a play or something.”

Mycroft could literally do nothing but stand in shock.

 _No-one_ laughed at him. Or at least, laughed and lived to talk of it.

He came even closer, hoping to appeal to Lestrade’s base survival instinct and territoriality. Lestrade didn’t give him any ground. Good. A challenge. This, he could handle. The usual banter before the other just gave in to his will. Back on track, then.

Only, this time, there wasn’t a flash of anger or alarm in Lestrade’s eyes. It was something else, something Mycroft didn’t have a name for, but he did note the immediate effect it had on him. It went straight through him, to something else Mycroft didn’t have a name for. What in the bloody hell was this man’s game? Mycroft’s heart rate increased, and blood rose to his cheeks. His control was slipping, but toward what, he wasn’t quite certain. He wanted to scream, or punch the detective inspector, but he also wanted to have him close, closer, closer. Mycroft had never felt like this.

He felt… bested.

He had been beaten at his own intimidation game by an ordinary detective inspector of questionable background and education.

The great Mycroft Holmes took a step back.

“Now, then, Master Holmes,” Lestrade began, eyes shuttered and tone exceptionally crisp. “We can work together, to find your idiot of a brother, yeah? If you’re half the genius he is, he’ll be back by morning.”

Mycroft took a shallow breath, refusing to try to steady himself. He _was_ steady, damn it.

“By this evening, then, Inspector Lestrade.”


	3. Act III, part i

It was ten o’clock in the evening, and Mycroft and Lestrade had gotten very close to nowhere.

No leads, no clues, no hints, except for ambiguous statements about Sherlock’s health.

Knowing the consulting detective was alive wasn’t exactly going to help find him, except to ensure that they’d never stop looking. Mycroft knew the kidnapper’s game, knew the frayed and frantic state John Watson was in, knew the ache in his chest wasn’t going to get any better. The problem was, as much as he knew, as much as he always knew, he still couldn’t figure out how to get just that fraction of a step ahead of the kidnapper.

Or who the hell it even was.

Mycroft briefly entertains the idea of murdering every single one of the suspects, but he is, after all, working with the police, and even the great Mycroft Holmes could not blackmail and pull favours out of such vagrant disregard for the law. Or at least that was what he tried to convince himself of. Because if not for that flimsy excuse, over fifty dead bodies would crop up overnight. Insignificant kills, really, but together, they’d paint a picture that even Scotland Yard could figure out.

So he goes over the notes again, in Lestrade’s office, in Lestrade’s chair, which would be supremely comfortable, maybe even comforting, if a certain DI wasn’t sitting patiently for Mycroft to have a famous Holmesian breakthrough. The expectant look, while he was logically aware it was completely his own imagination, was overwhelming. So, like so many overpowering things lately, Mycroft stubbornly ignored it, and turned back to the messages, the exact same ones, only this time there was a fifth one in the mix.

While he’d been making the perfectly amiable acquaintance Lestrade, John had received the fifth message, lain directly over his heart while he slept. It’d been a lock tied with twine of what John was sure was Sherlock’s hair, and a little note attached that read: _‘Thought you might want a memento.’_ This implied something Mycroft didn’t like to entertain the possibility of, because Mycroft was not easily fooled, but even with all his faults and idiosyncrasies, his little brother always had a touch of invincible about him, the kind of thing that whispered, _‘You can’t catch me.’_ And although many had tried, the whisper persisted, and was right on all accounts.

Until five days ago.

Mycroft groaned, rubbing his face roughly to rid his mind of all the thoughts that did absolutely nothing to help solve the case.

“You know, one of these times, you’re going to end up rubbing your face clean off,” Lestrade interjects quietly. “Fifth time in the last two minutes. You need a break.”

Mycroft is surprised by Lestrade’s gentle admonition, a great difference from his shouting earlier. Perhaps it was the cabin pressure, alleviating the hostility because of the forced teamwork. “May as well make the best of it,” and all that. Most likely, however, Mycroft admitted internally, Lestrade was just a good man, who had been irritated by him earlier, and was now worried about him. He jerked involuntarily in his chair. Worried. He was not a child.

“What I _need_ , Lestrade, is my brother back, safe,” Mycroft snapped back irritably. No one was going to mother him.

“Calm down, Myc, I was just trying to-” Lestrade cuts himself off. He walked around the desk, and Mycroft recognised his own tactics. Same side of the desk, same side of the argument. Only this time instead of trying for political negotiations privately, Lestrade was trying to force him to ‘take a break.’ It was indeed a nice try, but Mycroft was no-one’s fool. “I’m just saying you could take a minute or two, is all. Maybe have some tea. You haven’t eaten since you got here, and I’d be willing to wager it’s been more than this little while.”

Mycroft ignored his entirely true, entirely helpful statement spitefully and narrows his eyes.

“Firstly, don’t call me Myc. My name is Mycroft, if you could possibly struggle all the way through to the end of it. Second, trying to do what, exactly, Lestrade? Trying to make a joke of my frustration? Of my brother’s disappearance? Of a sadistic psychopath?”

“No, of course not. Don’t be stupid, _Myc_ ,” Lestrade bit out. “I was just-”

“What, Inspector?”

“I was-”

“Trying to prove I can’t handle this? The ‘emotional trauma’?” Mycroft spit.

“I was trying to make you smile, damn it! I dunno. Laugh, maybe, if I was lucky,” Lestrade burst out, trailing off at the end. “It’s not right, the way you Holmes focus so completely. It’s frightening, and odd, and at the moment, a bit pathetic.”

Lestrade froze, feeling the offensive words sink in, into himself, the argument, and lastly, most hauntingly, Mycroft.

“I assure you, Inspector, that I am perfectly capable of managing my time myself, thank you,” Mycroft choked out. “I am just preoccupied at the moment, given that Sherlock is currently in the hands of a crazy, seemingly vengeful man.”

Lestrade shook his head. He’d made it sound as if Sherlock was a distant acquaintance, off to visit relatives. Something inside Lestrade cracked, seeing Mycroft struggling for control yet again, battling for indifference, praying for uncaring. It wasn’t human, but it was broken, and Lestrade had always been more familiar with the latter, anyway.

“Look, I didn’t mean-”

“You don’t have to say anythi-”

“I didn’t _mean_ ,” Lestrade continued forcefully, “for you to take it as a personal offence, Mycroft. I was simply trying to say that breaking yourself won’t heal Sherlock. Wasting away into nothing won’t bring him back.”

“What would you suggest I do, then?” Mycroft said softly, staring into something only he could see. “What could I _possibly_ do? All I see, all I can think about-”

“Let me,” Lestrade whispered, drawing closer still to Mycroft, until he was kneeling directly in front of his own chair, which Mycroft had turned to the left. Not stopping there, Mycroft noted absently. Closer and closer.

The petulant ‘let you what’ died on Mycroft’s lips as Lestrade invaded his personal space beyond even the most lax of social boundaries. His breath caught in his throat and a variety of images not suited to anywhere but a bedroom flashed through his mind. He blinked, startled by his own mind. He’d never had the time nor inclination to think about any of this but for a handful of moments, so, of course it would start when his brother was kidnapped and with a man he was relatively sure hated him. But, if that was right, why was he coming so close?

Could he be- _No, of course not,_ Mycroft corrected himself. This was nineteenth century, and people were forward thinking, but nothing like this. No, Mycroft was the only man he’d ever heard of who was wired this way; which, until now, made his job infinitesimally simpler, as most politicians were shamed into leaving by illegitimate children or gold-seeking mistresses.

All this flashed through his mind in the time it took for Lestrade to get within, by Mycroft’s estimates, twenty centimetres of his third button, the point on himself closest to Lestrade. But still he came. Once he breached that barrier, Mycroft’s brain shorted out. No thought except how close the inspector would come, how his own breath was coming just a bit faster, how he could practically feel his pupils dilating.

Mycroft could feel Lestrade’s breath on his cheek and closed his eyes against the sensation. He almost jumped when the next thing he felt was the rough scratch of a day-old beard across his jaw, but repressed it. He knew his annoyingly sensitive skin would soon be bright red from the contact, but nothing was going to stop this moment. He tried to memorise each hair as they came into contact with his face, but found himself getting lost in everything. The sensations, the rapid pulse throbbing through his entire body, the smell of grass and rain and sweat coming from Lestrade.

When Lestrade’s arms came up around Mycroft, he leaned in, just a fraction, craving the warmth and comfort that they provided, not caring for the moment that he was supposed to be invincible, all-powerful. Right now he was just Mycroft Holmes, a broken man trying to find his brother. He felt the tension practically melt off of his body, and silently thanked this man for doing what no one else dared to. Give the great Master Holmes a hug.

As good as he thought it felt, though, his body was fully prepared to argue with his acceptance that this would be enough, as was evident by the subtle tightening of his trousers. Given that he’d lost weight recently and they’d already been loose, that didn’t bode well for the state of his arousal. Mycroft stiffened a hair, and hoped to whatever god he could think of that Lestrade wouldn’t notice or would have the tact not to comment.

Lestrade, of course, did neither.

As he began to lean back, Mycroft flashed his eyes wide open, and sat back first, back ramrod straight, mind racing. The prickling feeling of embarrassment made its way up to his neck, colouring it a rosy pink, but he steadfastly ignored it, and narrowed his eyes.

“We will, of course, never speak of this,” he asserted coolly.

“Yea- Yeah, mate, sure,” Lestrade answered, sounding hoarse, which Mycroft noted as off, but continued on.

“I understand that you’re not attracted to men, obviously, and therefore-”

Mycroft is cut off for the second time that evening by Lestrade’s mouth roughly covering his own, lips warm and soft, in stark contrast to his scruff and the chill of the fireless room. Mycroft doesn’t think, just moans into it, titling his head back as Lestrade stands, looming over him in a way he would normally take as threatening. Now he just lightly bites the inside of Lestrade’s lip before sweeping his tongue back over it in apology. Lestrade fists his hands into Mycroft’s coat, and pulls him up, so Mycroft is arched against him, practically out of the chair.

“Not- attracted- to-men?” Lestrade asks, punctuating each word with a soft, soft kiss to Mycroft neck, jaw, the corner of his mouth, before finally landing back on his lips.

“W- Well,” Mycroft stuttered, control far gone, eyes blown open, “given the current view on homosexuality and your stance, leaning towar- towards a young Miss Sa-”

“God, you’re an idiot,” Lestrade breathed before grinning and sweeping Mycroft’s coat off quickly, then returning his attention to his lips.

Mycroft smiled into it, thinking that although he never liked interruptions before, they could make a habit of that.


	4. Intermission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is sex. I'm not sorry. If you'd like to skip over this part, you won't miss anything.

When Lestrade’s teeth made an indent that felt permanent against his neck, Mycroft’s breath came out shakily.

When Lestrade’s scruff brushed against his hand briefly, Mycroft tried and failed to stifle a groan.

When Lestrade’s hair ran in between his fingers, Mycroft felt more powerful than he ever had before, and that’s certainly saying something.

Mycroft filed all of these facts away carefully in a file labelled “Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade;” a file that was growing tenfold by the second. He had to remember the extent of the effect the man had on him. Leverage, he thought forcefully, as he touched the tip of Lestrade’s canine with his tongue.

Then all his carefully laid out thoughts about saving information flew away when the detective’s hands did something to his coat then his shirt then his undershirt and they suddenly disappeared. Whatever he did, Mycroft must’ve done the same to Lestrade’s because then there was no time for thinking because suddenly it was skin against skin against wooden desk, and breaths intermixing, and everything inside Mycroft screamed: Now. _Now._

Mycroft flashed to his senses, just in time to feel Lestrade’s lips brush against his jaw. Teething, marking it, Mycroft knew. He was going to have to favour even higher cut collars for a while. He lent his head away, just out of reach, and pulled the inspector’s head back with his left hand, still entangled in the lightly grey-streaked hair.

“You did that on purpose,” he accused, the bite of it somewhat weakened by the soft, soft kisses he was peppering over Lestrade’s collarbone, making his way toward the detective’s neck. “I shall have a bruise to-morrow,” Mycroft continued, leaving a similar mark on the place where Lestrade’s neck met his shoulder. He lent back satisfactorily.

“Now we match.”

Lestrade let out a breathless huff, then keened as Mycroft bit down softly on his left nipple, his hand playing with the other. It was no longer time for jokes. He let go of his hair regretfully, to deftly switch positions with the detective so that he was the one looking down on the other. He was in charge now. Lestrade, no longer restrained, maintained his position carefully, just as Mycroft intended.

He smiled down at the skin at the base of Lestrade’s throat, and breathed lightly onto the sheen of sweat he saw there, causing a choked gasp from the man below him. “Stay still,” he whispered. “I want to see.”

When Lestrade became completely immobile, Mycroft took it as a silent act of permission, and began his exploration of the detective’s body. Scars peppered over his abdomen, knife cuts, burn marks, one that looked like fingernail scrapes. Mycroft touched each of them, with his fingertips, then his lips. _Never again,_ he whispered with each kiss, _never again will harm come to you._ His hands gripped Lestrade’s arms, feeling the firm, tough muscles, desperately trying to reassure himself. Maybe everyone whom he ever loved wouldn’t have to be hurt. Maybe Lestrade could be safe. Be whole, forever.

Lestrade moaned quietly, trying to drag Mycroft back up, trying to reach out and touch Mycroft himself, trying a million different things at once, but Mycroft was not in the mood to compromise. He stayed carefully out of reach wherever Lestrade came close.

“Stay still,” he repeated, making it as clear as possible that he had control, a voluntarily given control, and rewarded Lestrade’s lack of further movement with a short kiss. 

“You must stay,” he spoke lowly next to his ear.

“Stay,” he whispered against Lestrade’s ribs.

“Stay,” he warned against Lestrade’s quiet groans, as he kissed his hip.

“Stay,” he breathed against the leaking shaft that twitched against his exhale.

And when he took it into his mouth, lapping the saltiness slowly, Lestrade stayed. 

Mycroft curiously tongued the head, tracing the foreskin slowly. Never being acquainted with this particular part of the anatomy before, he felt no need to rush his exposure. No need to soothe the aching cries of the helpless man below him.

He smiled around the head of Lestrade’s cock, and took him in deeper, as much as he could, before bobbing back up again, barely letting the tip touch the back of his throat before withdrawing. He felt Lestrade intimately, memorising every smell, gasp, moan his tongue incited. As he dropped feather light kisses along his shaft, Mycroft learnt his smell. When he wrapped his hand around the base of his cock, Mycroft filed away the soundless scream. While he swallowed every drop of semen bursting out, licked every remain of it off of every inch, Mycroft committed the softly uttered _“Myc,”_ to his impeccable memory.

Mycroft propped himself up on his elbows, over Lestrade, lightly keeping his right hand enveloping the inspector’s wrist, both feeling and watching his pulse return back to normal, uncaring, for the most part, how seeing this just made him more and more aroused. However, when he raised his other hand to his chest to compare the heart rates, as biased and unreliable as he knew it would be, his skin caught fire from the contact, and he was suddenly very aware of how aroused he was.

So Mycroft traced his hands slowly lower to finally _finally_ take hold of something his body had been begging for since the first flash of lust in the detective inspector’s eyes, screaming for since he saw the inspector undone so completely. Then, Lestrade finally moved again, hand covering Mycroft’s.

“Let,” he whispered, “me.”

And then Mycroft’s world flashed white.


	5. Act III, part ii

When Mycroft’s eyes finally deigned to obey his command to open, he found he was lying right next to the bundle of hair Sherlock’s co-inhabitant had found, and promptly shut them right up again against a wave of guilt. Here he was, brother missing, psychopath at large, enjoying the bloody afterglow with another man. He should be working. But he was tired of working. He entertained a fantasy of just lying on the increasingly uncomfortable desk forever with Lestrade for a bit, but he knew it was just that. A fantasy.

When he could handle it no longer, Mycroft slowly sat up, feeling every activity he’d engaged in in every muscle that groaned in protest. He looked down at the sleepy, gruff inspector, currently mumbling for him to stop being to daft, take a break, Myc, lay down, and was overcome by a feeling of protective instinct. _Really,_ he thought, _too many pressure points._ But he could hardly help it. The detective inspector had a regrettable note of charisma. It was as irritating as it was irresistible.

He stood up, taking in their surroundings. Mostly undisturbed, the office space was larger than it had seemed before, much less suffocating. Books scattered along with trinkets and pictures lay on shelves. He picked one particularly worn picture up. It was practically screaming for attention to his observing eyes.

“My kids,” the reclined detective said softly. “Don’t see them often, now. Wife’s got ‘em far enough away from me that I can’t influence them at all. Make my son like men or anything.” He laughed weakly and closed his eyes.

Mycroft looked down at Lestrade, and felt a familiar anger surge up in him at the stupidity of the populace. Idiots, all of them. How the hell would being around Lestrade _at all_ affect-

A rough hand gently plucking the picture from his own cut off his train of thought. “Don’t worry, yeah? ‘S fine.” But it wasn’t, and Mycroft could see that clearly. Maybe after he’d found Sherlock. There would be time for everything. For now, though, he had to get back to work.

After he’d redressed and reapplied as much order as he could to his personal appearance, he fixed the chair that had somehow become upturned during the whole ordeal, and placed it next to the desk, then placed himself in it.

“You really must get up, detective inspector,” Mycroft whispered, bravely resisting the urge to touch the barely grey hair once more.

Lestrade responded equally respectably by groaning and throwing his arm over his eyes.

“Five more minutes, mum,” he said, grin barely visible beneath the crease of his elbow.

Mycroft laughed softly, then laughed some more, surprised by it. He shook his head a bit to clear it, and stretched. In a fraction of a second, Lestrade flashed upright to poke and tease Mycroft’s exposed stomach.

“I could have you- killed,” Mycroft gasped through his laughter. “My skin it’s- sensitive, det- Lestrade, please!”

“Since you said please,” Lestrade growled, suddenly closer than Mycroft expected him to be. “But I sincerely hope it left marks.”

If Mycroft was a younger, lesser, man, he may have melted into Lestrade. He may have taken him on the desk again and then once more for good measure. As it was, he barely summed it up to push Lestrade gently away.

“I have to look again,” he sighed, knowing it would do no good. “I have to. Maybe something in the photograph. Maybe I should go to that damn hospital.” He unconsciously grabbed a small bundle of hairs off the table, running his fingers along the strands. “Maybe I should go now, while everyone’s sleeping. Quiet, that way I could actually thi- Lestrade, look at this.”

“Fifth clue, yeah. What about it?”

“Does this look like Sherlock’s hair to you?”

“To be honest, Myc, I’m not that familiar with his hair. You know. There are these things called social bounda-“

“No, Lestrade, look. Really look. This isn’t even human hair. This is- it looks like _horse_ hair.” Mycroft felt chilled. “I’ve seen this before.”

“Did Sherlock have a particular horse? Could it’d’ve been his? Maybe he didn’t kill Sherlock. Maybe the bastard is just playing one more game with us.”

“No, no. Just wait. I’ve _seen_ this.” Mycroft rose and began to pace, letting the impatient side he had so carefully hidden show. Part of his mind remembered the millions of times he’d gotten after Sherlock for the exact same thing. Another part sparked in recognition. And then yet another froze, realising exactly what that meant. His shirt. Hand. Made. The owner had looked so scared. Mycroft, fool that he was, thought it was due to his own presence. Idiot. This was all part of his plan. The shirt, the clues, Sherlock.

His legs collapsed, and he narrowly avoided hitting the floor by a hand snaking around his waist and yanking him upward. “Let’s sit you down, yeah?” Lestrade whispered, setting him down in the chair. “What happened? What is it? The hair, what does it mean?”

Questions, always questions. 

He flashed back to age ten, Sherlock toddling in the room, remarkably coordinated for a four-year-old. “What is this, Myc?” he’d asked, holding up a magnifying glass. “It makes everything so _big._ Redbeard’s eye was the size of my entire hand.” He’d been annoyed by it, he remembered. “It’s a stupid magnifying glass, Sherlock. It uses refraction to enlarge what your naked eye can see.” Sherlock’s head tilted, filing the information away. “What’s refract-“ He’d cut Sherlock off. “Go look it up. That’s what libraries are for, little brother.”

He’d been sixteen the next time, with Redbeard at his feet, about a metre below ground level. “And we solemnly wish you the best, dear friend,” he’d finished as seriously as he was able. It was just a pet. But Sherlock had cared _so much._ He’d tried to warn him against it. Sentiment. It could only serve as a weakness. As the servants began to shovel the dirt onto the dull red fur, Sherlock had whispered quietly, probably so that he thought no one could hear. “See you on the other side.” Mycroft had just begun to walk away, when a small, firm hand wrapped around his forearm stopped him. “Why, Mycroft? Why do things die?” He’d racked his brain through all the generic condolences he’d been taught, but settled on the truth. His brother had always like the truth. Mycroft had spoken as gently as possible. “That’s what things _do,_ Sherlock.”

And then twenty-four, trying to look after his little brother. So little. Sherlock was barely old enough to have inherited his fortune, but definitely old enough to have made bad decisions with it. Barely conscious when his men had found him, Sherlock still had it in himself to send him a look of pure loathing. “How come you don’t just leave me alone?” Sherlock slurred. Mycroft had had no answer, just silence. He’d propped Sherlock’s head up on a cushion, and then moved out of the way for the specialists he’d brought in. They’d had to clear his bloodstream, and then it was months of facilities ahead of him. Sherlock had almost died. It was easy to overdose, they’d reassured him. But he knew his brother. Knew how clever he was. This was no mistake. So it was to an empty room that he delivered his answer, long after they’d gone. Quietly. “Because I can’t. I love you, Sherlock.”

Thirty-two, now, and Sherlock was no longer here to ask. His own head gave voice to the questions. “Is he alive? Is he breathing? Is his heart beating now, like yours is?” Mycroft had no answers this time. Big brother had let Sherlock down. He felt he would explode. It had always been his responsibility. Freeze frames of their lives lighted across his eyelids. Six years old, baby Sherlock was brought home. “Take care of him, Myc.” Eight, Sherlock learnt to walk. He’d held his baby brother’s hands, swung him up on his shoulders right before Sherlock fell, so the would-be tears turned into delighted laughter. Twelve, going off to school for the first time. Sherlock cried for hours, only to come running down the drive, chasing the carriage until Mycroft made it stop. “You hate the rain,” he’d hiccupped, brandishing the umbrella like the prize it was. Eighteen, Sherlock goes off to school. Mycroft doesn’t know when. No-one bothers to tell him the exact day. Twenty-six, Sherlock leaves the facility. “Don’t ever speak to me again.” Thirty. Checking the background of John Watson. Sherlock’s better, more human, his reports expose. Opens a letter addressed from a certain ‘221B Baker Street.’ Tentative contact. And now? Now what?

Mycroft was shocked out of his reverie by a pungent smell. Smelling salts. He shoved them away, about to snap at whatever idiot thrust them under his nose, when he realised where he was and whom he was with. An ashen face greeted his own, and worried eyes searched his face.

“We need to go to the storage house,” he whispered, still feeling the effects of the shock, nevertheless determined to get moving immediately. He pushed himself into a standing position, and looked over at Lestrade. “We need to go _now._ ”

“What storage house?” Lestrade propped himself on the edge of the desk, looking more professional, more functional, in his element. “Where is it? I’ll tell my officers to meet us there.”

Mycroft wrote the address down soundlessly, and handed it to Lestrade, but held his hand when it made contact with his. He knew it was useless, but he had to ask.

“Please, Greg. Stay here.”

He could tell by the change in expression, stance, air, that this wasn’t going to work.

“You know I can’t.”

“Yes,” Mycroft sighed. “I know.”

Lestrade shook his head in amazement. “You’re practically _scared,_ Myc. Who is it? Who would have the great Master Holmes scared?”

Mycroft looked into the eyes he’d become so familiar with, and relied on them to keep his voice steady.

“Moriarty.”


	6. Act IV

The storage house was large and empty; the dirt-covered walls captured and absorbed the sound of their footsteps. Lestrade had sent one of Sherlock’s vagrant young streetwalkers to call on his officers. Poor men were likely to be sound asleep, as it was only just past mid-night. Any respectable man would be in bed in his home. And here they were, at an abandoned, lonely place chasing after a criminal mastermind. Mycroft turned to Lestrade, speaking softly.

“You could stay here, wait for your men. Someone has to tell them where to go. Whether to go quietly or charging in.”

“They’re smart blokes. They’ll figure it out.” Lestrade answered, an unspoken ‘Nice try,’ hanging in the air.

Mycroft approached the door, hanging on by sheer willpower, and gently tried to swing it open.

“No, don’t-”

Lestrade’s warning was cut off by a deafening clatter as the door finally gave up the battle.

“Oh, decided to join me, Master Holmes?” a voice echoed back to them, higher than Mycroft remembered. He looked back at Lestrade, asking silently, as a Hail Mary, for him to stay. Lestrade visibly steeled himself and shook his head in answer.

Together. To the end.

Mycroft strolled through the door as casually as possible, trying to look unaffected. “Yes. I just wanted to check in on my brother, really. So incapable of taking care of himself.”

Moriarty stood over Sherlock’s limp body, smiling in the low light. “I almost wish he was awake, just to hear the scorn in your voice.” He carefully stepped over Sherlock. “But I’m also glad he isn’t. He did so love to talk. Although, it was just so interesting. He was so much more _fun_ than you, dear Master Holmes, so much more willing to _play._ Well, I mean, _I_ had fun. If he could talk, I’m sure he’d agree. Although this last bit _was_ nice. Convincing you I was in America all those months ago. Taking little Sherlock. Leaving love notes with Doctor Watson. Seemed a bit stubborn, he did. The bravery he displayed. Like a real soldier. _So_ admirable. But he really got scared after the violin disappeared, and then the building was just the sugar in the tea. The last one was the hardest. How to make you come here. At least, in time for Sherlock to still be breathing.”

Mycroft took an involuntary step forward, but stopped himself when he saw a barely-there steady rise and fall of Sherlock’s back.

“He was so nice. Bored, just like me. Maybe I’ll come back for him, one day. When all my other toys are broken,” Moriarty looked back at Sherlock with a maniacal sort of fondness.

“That’s assuming you’ll be able to,” Mycroft snarled, “and I can assure you that you will not.”

“Oh, Myc, may I call you Myc? It’s just so _funny_ to see you like this. But this next part will get you even more. I almost want to maintain the suspense. But we only have a certain amount of time before little brother here pulls a little Lazarus trick. Sleeps like the dead, this one does. But anyway, haven’t you noticed yet? Missing something?” Moriarty smiled even more as Mycroft glanced behind him only to be greeted by an empty wall. Lestrade. “God, it’s almost too easy to take your things. Almost like you _want_ me to.”

“I’m going to kill you,” Mycroft said, dead calm. He slowly turned back to Moriarty, planning a way to ensure the criminal would live through every type of torture Mycroft had discovered.

“Not if I kill you first,” the man sang, motioning behind him. Lestrade was pulled into the open space, through a second door. Workers’ entrance. Of course. “Or at least kill your willpower. I almost think I’d prefer that. See, now I have baby brother here and your lover. Oh, I _promise_ not to tell. It’ll be our little secret, hm? I do love secrets. Sebastian, move him over here.”

The man holding a perfectly still Lestrade moved forward, towards the centre of the room. Lestrade’s face held a determination that gave heart to Mycroft’s failing morale. He looked shell-shocked, but steady, like he knew this was the end. This was it. What a way to go. When he caught Mycroft looking at him, Lestrade sent him a quick grin, maybe reassuring, definitely scared, and nodded slightly.

Then, three things happened in quick succession.

One. Mycroft made quick eye contact with Lestrade. A million words passed between the two, and Mycroft nodded. Moriarty gloated for just a second longer than he should have.

Two. Mycroft pulled a revolver from his pocket, right where Lestrade told him not to put it. Firearms were reliably unreliable. He aimed for a split second, couldn’t afford to take longer, and Moriarty dropped to the floor, with a small gasp. He screamed out. Mycroft must have hit his shoulder, from the strength of the yells. What a shame. He’d been aiming for his heart.

Three. Before the man detaining him had a chance to respond, Lestrade let a knife in his sleeve slip out, and stabbed him in the thigh. The man let out a colourful expletive, and released Lestrade. He immediately dropped to the ground, and tied a tourniquet above the wound to stanch the bleeding, and strong-armed his way towards Moriarty. Military, Mycroft noted. Sniper, probably, from how naturally he crawled, using only his arms. Interesting.

And then it was over.

Mycroft jerked his head toward Sherlock, and Lestrade left Sebastian to hover over his master.

The pair quickly ran to the prone figure in the middle of the damp, dirty floor. Sherlock’s skin had pallor to it that reminded Mycroft too much of drugs, and his lifeless limbs bode none of the protest that should be there when Mycroft gathered him up into his arms. Lestrade took his pulse as Mycroft rocked him gently back and forth, something he hadn’t done since Sherlock could be trusted to remember. “You can’t, you can’t, you can’t,” Mycroft chanted softly. He didn’t have the willpower to say it all aloud. _You can’t die._

“He’ll be fine, Mycroft,” Lestrade said softly, but Mycroft took no notice. Lestrade gently took Sherlock from him, setting him softly on the floor. He began to explain about procedures, recovery time, how he’d seen this before, starvation, dehydration, some minimal physical injuries, but Mycroft just stared on with blank eyes. Moriarty must die. He was in the wind by now, though, and Mycroft knew he would just have to wait until he popped his head back up again.

But he would. Psychopaths get bored. And when he did, Mycroft would kill him.

Lestrade eventually gave up, and his reassurances trailed off. Silence reigned as Mycroft kneeled on the floor, trousers hopelessly ruined, tears he hadn’t realised were falling dried on his cheeks, Lestrade sitting beside him, waiting.

It took exactly eleven minutes and thirty two seconds for Mycroft to come back to reality. He rose swiftly, ignoring the protest from his knees, and looked down at Lestrade.

“Moriarty will die.”

“Yes, I s’pose he will,” Lestrade answered levelly.

“And you will help?”

“When I can.”

With that reassurance, Mycroft turned to the second door; the one Lestrade had been forced through for a dramatic entrance. “I need to go.”

“Can’t convince you stay, can I?” Lestrade asked sadly, looking down at Sherlock, who would never know what his brother did for him.

“No, you cannot.” The words echoed in back into the empty room as Mycroft walked out.

Lestrade stayed sitting, running through everything in his brain: the case, Sherlock, the madman who’d slipped out somewhere in their rush for Sherlock. Only a Holmes could have made that seemingly enormous jump between the horsehair and the location. Sherlock would have died, had the solution only been up to the Yard. Mycroft Holmes, cleverer than Moriarty, cleverer than Sherlock, yet the world had never heard his name. And then Moriarty himself, the genius psychopath. Mycroft had faced him before, beaten him, by the vengeful way Moriarty had chased after the people he cared about.

Wherever his mind went, he realised, it always circled its way back to Mycroft. A caring man who talked like ice, untouchable but begging for companionship, a man who laughed at stupid jokes and moaned his name like poetry. Where had he gone? Back to solidarity? It must be lonely, to be the most powerful man in the world, but live as a whisper.

At half one, when the officers finally arrived at the scene, Lestrade stood, feeling the tingling in his legs that signified he’d been there a while. As Doctor Watson rushed to Sherlock’s side, Lestrade turned his back on the pair, and slowly made his way to the exit. He looked back at the scene one last time, at the people rushing to collect evidence, medics running to help Sherlock, officers circling the scene in case any criminals remained, lying in wait. Yet with all this activity, no-one asked how he was found. No-one wondered who had helped Lestrade.

The name Mycroft Holmes was only a ghost in the back of their minds.


	7. Act V

Three days later, Lestrade saw Mycroft again. Sherlock was lying in a hospital bed, asleep. They were in a secluded area presumably gotten through Mycroft’s connections. The private setting only made the fact that Sherlock was barely clothed in a simple shift worse, in Lestrade’s opinion. He kept his eyes firmly set on the opposite wall.

Lestrade was startled from a slight doze when a young, beautiful woman quietly opened the door, took in its inhabitants, and nodded to herself. She withdrew before Lestrade could ask a question, and when he turned to ask the now conscious Sherlock what had just happened, Sherlock simply closed his eyes and sighed.

So when Mycroft came through the door, with his umbrella hanging on his arm like he hadn’t a care in the world, Lestrade was somewhat caught unawares.

He blinked, not sure if this wasn’t another one of his dreams. Evidently not, since Sherlock was still present.

“What the hell, Myc?”

Sherlock eyes flashed open, and he let out a sore laugh. “Is that what he calls you? _Myc?”_

Lestrade stiffened, and Mycroft’s mouth turned up at one corner. Sherlock sat up a bit, looking alive for the first time when John wasn’t in the room. His eyes trailed over the detective, then switched abruptly to his big brother. He lay back, and shut his eyes again, this time more in a modicum of defeat.

“You could have done better, Lestrade,” he croaked.

“But I could not have, brother mine, and I must always have the best, mustn’t I?” Mycroft spoke softly, apology tangible in his voice. Even Lestrade knew Mycroft’s words were directed more towards himself than Sherlock.

“If you insist. So,” Sherlock said crisply, head slightly turned to Mycroft. “Decided to come visit at last? I’m surprised. You couldn’t be arsed out from behind your desk to look for me, why would you come now?”

Mycroft smiled against the barbs, glad at the fact that Sherlock was here to say them.

“A mere visit isn’t much to ensure I don’t have to clean up another mess,” Mycroft answered his crisply. “Looking would have been so much work when there were others to do it. You know how I detest legwork.”

Lestrade looked at Mycroft, mouth slightly open. He looked like he was still trying to figure out whether it was in shock or protestation. Mycroft shook his head slightly, and Lestrade closed his mouth.

“Anyway, you’ve seen. Now you can just as well see yourself out.” Sherlock raised an arm weakly to the door Mycroft had entered through.

“Yes, I think I shall. May I speak with you before I go, Inspector?” Mycroft said, almost as an afterthought. No-one in the room was fooled.

“Yeah, alright.” Lestrade got up from his chair and followed Mycroft out.

“Can’t stay long, you know. John’ll kill me if he knows I’ve left for longer than it takes to go to the restroom,” Lestrade said nervously, brushing his hands on his pants before settling them as casually as he could in his pockets.

Mycroft smiled. “Rest assured this will only take a moment.” He walked straight out of the hospital, and stopped in front of the building, removing his umbrella to cover them both, to shield them from the incessant rain. Lestrade looked out into the street.

“So are you going to explain yourself?”

Mycroft shifted, and they were side by side, a pair of official looking men, observing London fly by. He sighed. “No, Inspector. I am not.”

“Yeah, of course. Neither of you bloody Holmes explain anything. Oh, no, just ‘trust me’ and ‘I know what I’m doing’ and ‘I’m a bloody genius!’”

Mycroft paused, allowing Lestrade to feel stupid, allowing himself a moment to think. Because although it wasn’t word for word, those phrases were generally how he tended to reassure his subjects.

He sighed again.

“I swear to god, if you sigh one more ti-” Lestrade started, facing Mycroft angrily, almost out of the umbrella’s reach. Mycroft pulled him back by the wrist, and kept his eyes trailed on the floor.

“Listen, Greg, if I were to tell you everything I do, I would have to have you murdered. Or someone else would.” He raised his gaze to the seam of Lestrade’s coat. “You can see why I could never let that happen.”

“Huh. Guess I don’t need to know then,” Lestrade said, laughing softly, eyes straying to Mycroft’s face, fight leaving his stance. He leaned slightly into Mycroft. “I’m just tired, Myc. Living in the dark, it gets bad, you know?”

“Knowing everything isn’t the best, either, Lestrade.” Mycroft answered quietly.

“Yeah, I guess. So you just brought me out here to, what? To tell me nothing?”

“I was going to ask- See, I was thinking,” Mycroft swayed slightly, subtly putting a small space between himself and the inspector. “I was _wondering,_ I mean, if you would- There’s this restaurant on the corner of-” He broke off adjusting his grip on the umbrella.

“Yeah, I might have time for that,” Lestrade said amiably, nodding as though following every bit of Mycroft’s stuttering. “Maybe Saturday, yeah? I mean, I’ve still got letters to write, and filing to do, a thing like this, it gets away from you, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, I think it does sometimes,” Mycroft said, smiling fully, regaining his air of ease.

They remain standing there for a while, letting the cold seep past their coats, the rain patter over their heads. They talked when they wanted to, breathed in tandem when they didn’t. Lestrade hardly noticed when John rushed in and shot him a dirty look as he passed.

When he leaves Lestrade, he also leaves his umbrella. Lestrade needed it more than he did, he was sure of it.

He climbed in, and directed the driver to bring him home, but as the carriage wobbles away, it occurs to him he may have left home at the hospital.


	8. Encore

Lestrade and Mycroft found little things out about each other, slowly. Mycroft deduced most of his. Lestrade observed most of his when Mycroft wasn’t paying attention. 

Mycroft didn’t take sugar in his tea, not because he didn’t like it, but to keep losing weight. Lestrade was left-handed. Mycroft hated getting attached. Lestrade liked to wake up with the sun. Mycroft never played football because he was dreadfully clumsy. Lestrade made fun of him endlessly for it. Lestrade helped Mycroft stay of the red meat, even though he thought Mycroft was the absolute perfect size. Mycroft lost all the weight he thought he had too much of, not that Sherlock ever let him forget it. Lestrade saw his children again, and everyone suspected Mycroft’s involvement. Mycroft never denied it. 

Life went on. John was still the only one at 221B who makes the tea. Sherlock continued working cases for Scotland Yard, challenged more by his self-enforced monthly visits to Mycroft than by the cases. Sometimes they played chess. Mycroft always won. 

The year 1884 comes. Lestrade’s hair has turned fully grey, and Mycroft’s hair has receded. A series of unusual cases crop up, and Sherlock eagerly chases the criminal, with the help of John Watson. The crown jewels are almost stolen. Pentonville Prison is broken into. No one leaves. The Bank of England is compromised, but no money is taken. A completely separate case shows a pair of children kidnapped, almost killed by mercury poisoning. It’s far too late when Mycroft realises who it is. Sherlock meets with Moriarty at the top of Saint Bartholomew’s Hospital. John Watson arrives home from his work to a letter addressed to him, a goodbye. He races to the hospital just in time to see his best friend jump from the roof. He shouts his name to deaf ears. Moriarty is dead. Sherlock is found on the ground, covered in his own blood. There is no pulse.

He has left everyone who loved him with nothing.

John Watson grows a moustache and no longer takes cabbie carriages, preferring to walk, even with his returned limp. He moves out of 221B, taking nothing but his cane. He has tea with Mycroft from time to time. He visits Sherlock’s grave regularly, taking detective stories, but always stopping halfway through because he’s sure Sherlock’s solved it already. Lestrade retires. He moves to Mycroft’s estate. He doesn’t talk about Sherlock. Ever. Matron Hudson doesn’t ever rent 221B out again. The streetwalkers bow their head respectfully every time they pass Baker Street.

Mycroft stops eating. He writes a five book series about light refraction. He buys John Watson a dog named Gladstone. He pets the bulldog every time he comes up to greet him. He prays the thing will never die. He tries drugs, just once. Lestrade comes home to a weak Mycroft and it’s purely thanks to Anthea and the specialists he’d always kept on call for Sherlock that he lives. He walks out into the rain without an umbrella and lets it pour in rivulets down his face. He gets a cold. He starts taking sugar in his tea. Throughout it all, Lestrade never leaves.

Mycroft Holmes feels Moriarty has won.

However, in exactly two years, Sherlock Holmes will return.


End file.
